


Accidental Mosh Pit

by DabMyWetties



Series: Randomly Inspired Oneshots [8]
Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Alternate Universe, Awkward Dates, Blood, Happy Ending, Injury, M/M, Meet-Ugly, Punk Rock, Snark, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28608621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DabMyWetties/pseuds/DabMyWetties
Summary: He does, carefully, and looks on in mute horror as the face turns upright, blood pouring from his nose.Holy shit, this guy is fucked the fuck up.Scott watches, frozen, as he swipes at his nose with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his face and grimacing.
Relationships: Mitch Grassi/Scott Hoying
Series: Randomly Inspired Oneshots [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/677834
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Accidental Mosh Pit

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: Getting lost somewhere/I broke your nose in a mosh pit/Fuck you

This is, by far, the single worst date he’s ever had by a large margin. 

He’s been stood up, puked on, abandoned at a bowling alley with the excuse that the guy’s foot was killing him, had his wallet picked once, and then there was the time the guy brought his literal, actual mother along for a planned day at Disney. Those are all glittering, idyllic memories right now. 

Sure, things started off fine. Pete is cute - a little edgy and rough but with a sincerely gentle smile. They’d planned dinner at an intentionally trendy burger joint and drinks afterwards at a small club where Pete’s friend would be performing. 

It all sounds chill and fun and, honestly, exactly the kind of date Scott enjoys. Food and music are two of his favorite things in the world, and if things go well they’ll move on to his  _ other _ favorite thing in the world later in the evening. 

As they eat their burgers, Scott’s mind is firmly on that third favorite thing of his. It’s a struggle to maintain an appropriate gaze when all he can think about is peeling those leather pants from Pete’s narrow hips. It’s not a fashion choice he’d make himself but it fucking  _ works _ for his date and it’s not out of place whatsoever in the melange of punk, hipster, yuccie, and business casual streaming in and out of the restaurant. They chat, they laugh, they share an order of fries and teasingly let their hands brush together here and there. 

And then they get lost on the way to the club.

At first Pete said he knew the way so Scott settled comfortably in the passenger seat and watched as the scenery passed them by. As things turn out, Pete did not know the way, and after nearly an hour of fruitless driving and increasing frustration he finally agreed to use the fucking GPS built into the fucking phone tucked into the pocket of those leather fucking pants. 

The GPS did lead the way, but it didn’t account for construction which led to detours which then led to more frustration, and by the time they finally arrived in the vicinity of the club and parked Scott was no longer particularly interested in after-club bedroom activities. There are few things less sexy than a grown-ass man whining about traffic. 

But there’s alcohol inside so the night isn’t a complete bust. Worst case he can have a few drinks, enjoy some live music, and catch an Uber home. 

Thing is, Scott’s idea of “worst case” is significantly more optimistic than the reality. 

Pete said his friend played rock music but neglected to mention it’s the kind that involves a lot of screaming and an honest to god mosh pit in front of the stage. Scott has a varied taste in music, he really does, but this isn’t a particular favorite and it’s the furthest thing from conducive to the casual chatting that he’d much rather be doing on a first date.

Then again, maybe it’s for the best that they’re not able to chat. He’s already annoyed after Pete’s display in the car, and his annoyance only grows as he watches his date slam shot after shot, one after another until he’s tottery and shadowboxing a literal shadow less than an hour after arrival. 

It’s at this point Scott should just call and Uber an go. It really is, but he’s so flummoxed at everything that’s happened, at the sudden and inexplicable about-face from fun dinner to this particular clusterfuck that he stays out of nothing more than morbid curiosity. 

When it’s time for Pete’s friend’s band to perform, Scott even allows himself to be dragged to the quasi dance floor. This is an issue he really needs to work on; he’s been unable to shake off the good manners instilled in him during childhood and he feels obligated to stand politely in the crowd and pretend to enjoy the caterwauling and screeching happening much too near for his own comfort. 

And then Pete disappears, one minute screaming and headbanging next to him, the next pogoing his body straight into the growing mosh pit in front of them.

Alright. Fuck this. Manners be damned, this date is over.

Scott makes a quick scan of the crowd surrounding him, looking for an escape route. He sees a break in the bodies to his right, the sea parting, and steps towards it. 

It’s the wrong choice.

Suddenly he’s swept along with the surging crowd, his body propelled right into the fringe of the pit and there isn’t a fucking thing he can do about it. He knows if he doesn’t keep moving he’ll get trampled, and dying under a crush of combat boots is not the way he wants to exit this world. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Bodies begin to slam into him and on instinct he squares his stance and relaxes his knees to give himself more stability. He’s going to have to fight his way out of this thing; walking isn’t going to work. Everyone around him is jumping, galloping, bodies crashing into each other and arms flailing so Scott does the only thing he can do as panic begins to set in.

He shoves and he flails, and as he pushes back against the wall of bodies blocking his path he can see sweet, sweet freedom just feet away.

Then a body comes sailing from somewhere to his six, crashes into his shoulder as it nearly clears his head, and on instinct Scott swings and his forearm connects solidly with a face. 

His next instinct is to grab the body as it tumbles over his shoulder, not fully catching but definitely preventing it from crashing to the floor. 

Miraculously a space clears around him. It’s not much, but as Scott stands there clinging to the leg of the formerly flying body, its head dangling perilously close to the concrete below, a space clears and a path opens.

He storms it, carrying this person - he’s pretty sure it’s a guy but things are a bit hectic right now - upside down by the legs through the unexpected opening in the crowd like some scene from a bizarre war movie, only instead of gunfire the air is filled with the sound of guitar. 

And then he’s clear of it, the wall of bodies closing behind them. He keeps going until he’s much further back from the stage, until he can no longer take this guy punching him in the thigh and demanding to be put down. 

He does, carefully, and looks on in mute horror as the face turns upright, blood pouring from his nose.

Holy shit, this guy is fucked the fuck up. 

Scott watches, frozen, as he swipes at his nose with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his face and grimacing.

He needs that Uber immediately. This is not a place he wants to be and he hopes Pete stubs his goddamn toe on every piece of heavy furniture he ever comes across for the rest of his fucking life for bringing him here. 

“Shit,” he can see but not hear the guy say as he looks down at his now-bloodied hand, then further down at the blood dripping onto the floor.

Instincts kick in once again; Scott reaches out and grabs the guy’s arm to steady him as his knees buckle a little.

A chair. Somewhere to sit. Scott looks around frantically, and as he does so the guy whips his t-shirt off one-handed, wads it up, and presses it to his face. Someone at a nearby table sees their plight and stands from his seat, gesturing to take it. He does, guiding the bloodied figure to sit, leaning close so he can be heard as he yells “Are you fucking okay??”

It’s the first real look Scott’s gotten at him. He’s narrow and angular, heavily tattooed, and though most of his face is obscured by the shirt currently staunching the flow of blood he can see fiery brown eyes glaring back at him from under a wild tangle of dark spiky hair.

Slowly the shirt is lowered and blood continues to drip, rivulets running over mouth and chin already smeared red. The guy doesn’t answer, not verbally, but his expression morphs into sarcastic disbelief and he raises one hand, palm up. His meaning is clear:  _ What the fuck do you think, asshole? _

***

The men’s room is filthy and grimy, but it’s the only place to get this poor kid cleaned up. 

They’ve exchanged less than two dozen words, two of those being an angry “fuck you” in response to Scott’s offer to help him to the restroom. 

That phrase apparently has a different meaning in this place because Spike over here stands immediately afterwards and grabs Scott’s arm, leading him to the back corner of the club where the bathrooms are.

“Asshole,” Spike glares at Scott in the mirror’s reflection as he takes stock of the damage. 

Now that the bleeding has stopped it’s actually a really nice face. The attitude attached to it, though…

“I fucking caught you, why am I an asshole?” Scott is bewildered now. 

With a bundle of wet paper towels Spike methodically begins cleaning away the blood. He’s covered from eyebrows to chest at this point; the bleeding did not want to stop for a while there. “Um, you hit me in the face and broke my nose, that’s why you’re an asshole.”

“Excuse me, you came flying through the air and slammed into me. Maybe I should’ve just let you land headfirst on the floor.”

The glare gets more intense. “Fuck you.” 

There’s a steady stream of men walking in and out of the bathroom and steady streams at the urinals behind them. Scott has had more than enough bullshittery for the evening and getting cussed out for trying to be helpful is about his last straw. “Fuck you too. I never should have gone on this fucking date tonight. I don't deserve this.”

Spike snorts a laugh, then winces and a thin stream of blood seeps from one nostril. “You brought a date  _ here? _ So you’re an asshole and an idiot.” 

“I didn’t bring a date here, he brought  _ me _ here and honestly it’s been the single worst date of my life. Y’know what, just...fucking handle this yourself. Sorry I tried to be nice.” For good measure he flips Spike the bird via the mirror and turns on his heel to leave.

“Hey,” Spike’s voice makes him pause as he takes a step away. He doesn’t turn around. “I take back the idiot comment then. Sorry about your shitty date.”

Scott needs to either turn back around or walk out because he cannot keep staring in the general direction of the bank of urinals he’s currently trying not to look at.

He turns and faces the mirror again. “Might as well take back the asshole comment too because you hit me first. Asshole.”

“It’s a fucking mosh pit. What were you doing in there if you can’t handle getting a little beat up?” He’s got the worst of the blood cleared from his face though it’s still matted in his eyebrows and streaked down his neck and chest. 

It takes a lot of self control not to stare and Scott does not have that currently. “I wasn’t in it willingly. I got shoved in and couldn’t escape.”

There’s a pause as the music, only moderately dampened by the door, shifts from the live performance to something recorded and just as angry as before, and it must be popular because the stream of men leaving very quickly outpaces that of men entering the restroom. 

“Oh,” comes Spike’s quiet retort. He looks...ashamed? “Well, then I take back the asshole comment too, uh…?” he trails off. 

It takes a second. “Scott,” he replies curtly once he picks up on the unspoken question. 

“I’m Mitch. Thanks for catching me. The crowdsurfing got a little out of control.”

Right. He needs to leave. “Yeah, well, look. You got this now? Because I really want to get the fuck out of this nasty bathroom and this fucking bar and just go home, so…”

Spike’s... _ Mitch’s _ ...eyes narrow. “Fuck you.”

This is not just the culmination of the worst date of his life, it’s probably the culmination of the worst  _ day _ of at least the last decade of his life. Exhausted with it all, Scott throws his hands up in surrender. “Whatever. Fucking insult me again for no reason…”

“It wasn’t an insult,” Mitch interrupts, eyes locked on his in the mirror. “That one was an invitation.” 

...okay, cancel that  _ worst day of the last decade _ thing. “I’ll get an Uber.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
